Only It Isn't a Name
by lilsherlockian1975
Summary: A little post TFP (and I me directly 'post') ficlet. Sherlock goes to Molly after things are wrapped up with his sister and finds himself at a bit of a loss. But don't worry, Molly always knows what he needs. -one shot-


_I had wanted to contribute something to the 'I love you' anniversary, but I didn't get this finished in time. Big thanks to Mizjoley for looking this over. The mistakes are mine, however._

 _I own nothing, including the plethora of lines from "The Final Problem. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 _I hope she doesn't cry,_ Sherlock thought as he felt his heart rate increase slightly. He looked down at his hands when he felt them trembling. _I must be even more tired than realised_. Because it couldn't be nerves. Oh, no, Sherlock Holmes didn't get _nervous_. He tried to shake himself but it was no good, he suddenly heard her words, filled with sadness and yes, tears, in his mind.

 _Why are you doing this to me? Why are you making fun of me?_

 _I'm not an experiment, Sherlock._

 _You bastard._

Sherlock stood stock still, reliving that moment and, of course, the ones that followed...

 _I love you._

Her words, not his, because _his_ had meant nothing. Nothing… No, that wasn't right. They'd been cruel and manipulative. But they _had_ gotten the job done. He was desperately trying to push away the odd sense of 'rightness' he'd felt when he spoke the words the second time. _Technically, it was the third_ , his mind provided.

Pacing away from her door, to the end of the hallway, he put his hands to his head. "That doesn't matter." He tried to focus, to organize his thoughts so that he wouldn't sound cold and uncaring when she opened that door. This was delicate, this was… emotions and sentiment and…

"It's Molly, for God's sake!" If he'd been more himself, and not completely exhausted, he would have wondered just _how_ insane he looked, pacing around and mumbling to the empty hall. But he was beyond caring.

Scoffing internally, he tried to set his mind on the task at hand, but it refused to comply. Guilt, worry and some indefinable emotion welled up inside him and he paused, resting against the wall. He stared at her door as if it were his mortal enemy. _Just knock, you coward_. What was he so damned afraid of?

He just wanted to get it over with. One more task and he could go home to Baker Street and finally go to sleep. _Maybe I could kip at Molly's?_ His mind instantly conjured the image of soft yellow walls and the three watercolor paintings that adorned the room; an ancient armchair that didn't match any of the decor; the large, modern looking armoire; the small table that seemed to serve as both a desk and a vanity. She was so practical.

 _Practical about death…_

And then there was the bed. It was a king, almost too large for the room, but inviting nevertheless. How many times had he slept there next to piles of pillows and ornate cushions? She was always so accommodating. She'd never turned him away.

 _Look what you did to her. Look what you did to yourself._

Would she cry? Was she _still_ crying? And what, he wondered, had she been upset about when his sister had initiated her little game?

 _Alone._

Mentally waving off his questions and incessant flashbacks, he once again focused on what he was going to say to his friend. Apologise, explain the circumstances, ask if they could move on. It was simple, really.

 _All those complicated little emotions._

"God, I'm so tired," he mumbled to the empty corridor as he once again walked toward her door. He should have gone home, he should be sleeping, but he simply couldn't. Eurus was once again safely locked away, and catatonic at the moment, so she'd be unlikely to attempt another murder any time soon. He'd seen John to the hospital, phoned Mrs. Hudson about Rosamund's welfare and sent Greg to check on Mycroft. Molly, however, was his responsibility.

Raising his hand to the grey painted wood, he knocked. Again, he thought of her crying and had no idea how he'd handle it if she was. Witnesses and victims he could ignore; Molly, on the other hand... _No tears… no crying…_

The door opened. There she was. _Molly_.

She wasn't crying.

He opened his mouth as his practiced speech flew into his mind, then quickly vanished. As a matter of fact, he couldn't speak at all. He just stood, staring like a fool.

"Sherlock?" Molly said, her voice heavy with worry. "What…?"

He shook his head and stepped inside her flat until he was inches from her. Still unable to speak, he searched his mind to find some way to get his meaning across to the dumbstruck woman in front of him. Only, he couldn't. Suddenly, there were no words.

His arms wrapped around her midsection. He couldn't remember making the conscious decision to embrace her; he just did it. Lowering his head, he rested it on her shoulder and pulled her closer. It was awkward, to be sure, as he was so much taller than her, but it felt wonderful. He felt at peace.

Molly's hands wrapped around his shoulders. He felt her gently rubbing his back and heard a soft sound. She was shushing him, cooing sweet words of comfort.

Why was she comforting him? How could she stand to be near him?

She pulled away, but only a couple of inches. "When did you last sleep, Sherlock?" she asked, her hands never ceasing their gentle passes over his back.

Still unable to speak, he simply shook his head.

"You don't know?"

He nodded.

"Do you want to go lay down?"

He nodded again.

"Come on then." Her hand was suddenly holding his and he realised that he'd lost the near full body contact they'd just shared.

She tugged lightly and he followed her toward the room, the bed, he'd recently been fantasising about. Once inside Molly led him to the bed and gently nudged him to sit. She then set about closing the blinds and curtains, rendering the room nearly dark even though it was still mid-afternoon.

Turning, she faced him once again. "Do you need help with your shoes?"

He'd fallen asleep on her precious duvet with muddy shoes a couple of years before; it wasn't a mistake he'd made since.

Shaking his head, he kicked off the expensive loafers but remained seated, not laying down.

"Jacket?" she asked.

He shrugged out of it, tossing it across the end of the bed, thankful that she remembered the process of preparing for sleep because he felt lost.

Molly sighed and started for the door. She turned just before walking out and asked, "Do you need anything else?"

A sense of urgency finally pushed Sherlock to find his voice. He didn't want her to leave. "You," he answered honestly.

"I'm sorry?"

"Lie with me, Molly?"

She shook her head. "That's not a good idea, Sherlock."

Standing on very shaky legs, he made his way towards her. He was a couple of feet away when he held out his hand. "Please."

She looked furious and sad and hopeful all at the same time, but still didn't shed a tear. "Why?"

His sleep-deprived mind seemed to focus on a single fixed point: Molly Hooper's eyes. She was all he needed- all he'd ever needed, really. "Because it's always been you."

Her eyes widened for a moment before she dropped her head. Long moments passed as Molly stared at his outstretched hand. Finally, she took it and looked up. Her pleading eyes practically screamed ' _don't hurt me, Sherlock'_.

They made their way back to the bed, Sherlock pulling back the duvet then walking to the other side. He sat and swung his legs up onto the mattress.

Molly was still hesitating. Once again, he held out his hand. With a roll of her eyes, she batted it away and sat down.

As he lay back, his body finally started to relax. He closed his eyes, tucking his feet under the covers. That's when he felt something dry and soft brushing against his cheek. He opened to find Molly staring down at him. He hadn't even felt her move closer. She was propped up on one hand, holding a tissue in the other.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

She looked at him like he was at least a _bit_ crazy. "Drying your cheeks."

The realisation washed over him like cold fire. _He_ was the one crying. That's why she'd been so kind, so comforting. It was humiliating and freeing at the same time.

Molly finished her task, tossing the solid tissue in the bin before turning back to him. "Why were you crying, Sherlock?"

Answers flew to his mind: his sister, sleep deprivation, Victor, stress, Mary, John. Any of them would have caused a lesser man to crumble. But he knew the real reason. It was the woman that was staring intently at him, waiting patiently as per usual.

His hands curled up and around her, pulling her into his body. She fit perfectly as they lay side beside. "You," he whispered into her hair. "I can't… I can't lose you, Molly."

She didn't resist, not for a second, simply returned his embrace. "I'm not going anywhere," she said.

"But I hurt you. I always hurt you."

 _I lost count._

"And I always forgive you," she returned with little emotion in her voice.

He inhaled deeply, breathing her in. As he fought with his tired mind to find a more cohesive explanation for his emotions, the answer became crystal clear. He'd _meant_ it. It _wasn't_ a lie, or a manipulation. It was neither cruel or unkind. It was simply the truth.

They lay there for what felt like an eternity. He was deeply afraid of her response should he make his feeling clear, so he played it in his mind. He didn't deserve her; he never would. But he wanted her. He suddenly wanted all those things that he'd mocked and derided most of his life.

"Can I ask you a purely theoretical question?" he said, breaking the silence.

"I suppose." Her voice was soft, tentative.

"If I… If I said that I meant it, would you believe me?" he asked, unable to elaborate further.

It took Molly so long to answer he was certain that she was about to crush his hopes. Of course, he deserved nothing less. Then finally…

"I think I already knew." She paused, pulling away, but not looking him in the eyes. The room was too dark to see much anyway. She nudged him to lie on his back, but she didn't retreat, she moved with him. Resting her head on his chest, she continued, "Maybe that's why it's been so hard to give up." Her small hand smoothed over the fabric of his shirt, curling around his side. "But I'd like to know why that phone call took place, Sherlock. Why…?"

"It's a very long story, Molly."

"Will I like the ending?" she asked, sounding a bit fearful.

He thought for a moment before answering, "I believe so. The ending is just the beginning, it seems."

"Sleep first," she said, sitting up.

The loss of her body, of her warmth, caused Sherlock to reach out, grabbing onto any part of her he could find. Her hand in his, he asked, "Will you be here when I wake up?"

He felt her move once again, then felt her breath ghost across his cheek. It was the mere hint of a kiss, but it was enough. "I already told you that I'm not going anywhere. Get some rest. You have a story to tell." She kissed him again, this time on his lips, lingering just a moment before quickly extracting herself from the bed.

"Molly?" Sherlock called out as she walked toward the door.

 _It's for somebody who loves Sherlock._

She paused, and turned towards him. Backlit by the light coming in from the rest of the flat, he still couldn't see her face.

"Say it again," he said. "Please?"

"I love you," she answered, this time without hesitation.

Taking a deep breath, he allowed her words to wash over him, wishing it was the first time he'd heard them.

 _Say it like you mean it._

And God help him, he did. "I love you too, Molly," he replied as felt his body completely relax. He fell asleep knowing that she'd be there when he awoke and, no matter what, she'd be his.

* * *

 _Shoot me a review and make my day. Thanks so much for reading ~Lil~_


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